Revelations

by Laurel Dewey

  Mollie curled her lips. “Seriously. You look like a schlub.”

  “Your parents’ washer still on the fritz?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Shit.” Jane was exhausted and didn’t look forward to washing her shirts in the bathtub. “Hey, I gotta ask you something. You keep the emails you exchanged with Jake?”

  “Why?” Mollie’s suspicion was apparent.

  “I need to see them.”

  “Just check his computer…”

  “Yeah, funny thing about that, Mollie. They’ve been erased. Everything on Jake’s computer is erased.”

  Mollie’s eyes showed fear for the first time. “There’s not a lot of them. And they don’t say much. He wasn’t really into email and texting.”

  “I need to see them.” Mollie’s face showed stress. “They’re just between you and me, okay? If there’s anything about him sneaking out of his house to come see you…” Mollie looked at Jane with a nervous edge. “I won’t tell your parents. It’ll be our secret. Hey, when in Midas…”

  “I’ll print them out and give them to you in the morning,” Mollie acquiesced.

  Mollie turned back to her bedroom. “Did Jake ever mention a website called mysecretrevelations?”

  Mollie turned around. Her breathing was shallow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Jane stepped forward in a show of intimidation. “Do you know about the website?”

  “Yeah…I’m the one who told him about it. Did he post on it?” The kid’s face was etched with trepidation.

  “I think so.” She asked Mollie to check out the four specific posts in February and March from the anonymous fifteen-year-old boy, giving special note to the one sixteen days prior to Jake’s March 22nd disappearance. “Read them carefully,” Jane stressed, “then tell me if you think Jake wrote them. But keep it to yourself, okay?”

  The kid nodded and returned to her bedroom. Jane looked back at the glass cabinet that held the red photo album. She was too tired to pinch it, figuring her reflexes weren’t as sharp as they could be that night.

  Upstairs, she walked carefully past Weyler’s room and nearly had the knob on her door fully turned when Weyler stepped out into the hall. He was still in his dress shirt and slacks, albeit his power tie was removed and the top two buttons on his shirt were undone.

  “Jane,” Weyler said. Jane turned. “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t find the address. But I’m going to try again.”

  Weyler moved closer to her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Jane said, offering an offhand smile to cover the lie. “Just tired.”

  He stared at Jane, a serious expression clouding his face. “You eat?”

  God, he was relentless. “Yeah. No worries.” She opened her door. “See you in the morning.”

  Once inside her room, Jane let out a long sigh. She was back in her little Victorian cave with the exploitive honeymoon motif. She clicked on one of the small ornate lamps on the table, but the bulb sputtered. Something felt off as she glanced around the room. It was as if she’d entered a zone that was thick and vaporous. Draping her jacket over the chair, she checked every clue on the clothesline but nothing looked like it had been touched. Still, the syrupy mood in the room hung like lead. Turning off the light, she tried another floor lamp in the corner, but that also seemed to have electrical issues. “Shit,” she murmured, holding her head. The day had caught up with her. She’d wash her three shirts in the bathtub, wring them out and go to bed. Stripping off her clothes, she donned her nightshirt and found the well-used collection of romantic candles in a large dish in the bathroom. She lit them and was amazed at how much light they produced. Jane turned off the sputtering floor lamp and started the water in the bathtub. One by one, she dumped her identical muddy shirts into the hot water, squeezed in a healthy dollop of lavender scented bath gel to the water and swished them around until the water rose above them. Looking at the shirts drowning in the water, Jane had to admit that they did look “manly,” as Candy so succinctly stated. You certainly couldn’t look at the shirts and confuse them with anything that remotely resembled femininity. But neutered clothing was what she preferred. It was safe. She would never be accused of flaunting her merchandise to get what she wanted. Besides, lace and soft flimsy material made her feel too vulnerable. You can’t build strong walls to keep people out when you’re wearing silk. The dark colors she preferred also reflected Jane’s need to disappear and hide in the cloak of shadows. As the mud loosened from the material, the water turned a decidedly murky brown. Turning off the faucet, Jane felt a wave of fatigue grip her. The claw-foot bathtub absorbed the heat from the water and felt good against her skin. The pink bathmat beckoned her. She resolved to curl up against the tub and wake up in half an hour or so to finish her laundry.

  As soon as her head touched the soft nylon on the thick, cushioned bathmat, she felt herself falling backward. Instead of fighting it, she let it happen. She heard the candles spit wax into the dish. The room vibrated around her as the energy draped its arms around her body. She fell backward further, down an unseen hole that lay within the shadows of her consciousness. The intoxicating scent of the blue lily filtered through her senses, hovering like a guardian above her head. She moved in and out of sleep, aware that she was lying on the bathroom floor but also alert to a sentient reality that was quickly emerging next to her. Jane saw a fleeting glimpse of a diaphanous purple veil waving in a slow breeze. Beyond it, a figure emerged and, with eyes wide shut, the veil ripped, forcing white-hot light against her body. The heady aroma of gardenias replaced the scent of the blue lily. She felt herself begin to hyperventilate but then a calming hand rested on her chest. Jane heard the candles pop and hiss. It only felt like a few mystifying minutes when she opened her eyes.

  The enamel tub was cold. A lone flame flickered in a pool of wax. Peering around the corner of the bathroom door at the digital clock by her bedside table, she saw 3:11 am. What felt like minutes had been more than four hours. In that instant, she felt a presence in the bedroom. It was the same knowing sense she had from the first night. The rocking chair creaked with pressure against the wood floor. Jane swallowed hard and crawled toward the door. She’d left her Glock on the desk in its holster. There was no way she could reach it in the dark.

  She sat up and braced her back against the doorjamb that led into the bedroom.

  Creak.

  Weighing her options, she decided to speak. “Who’s there?”

  “Turn on the light,” a voice whispered in the coal black room.

  Jane began to hyperventilate. She knew the voice, but it was impossible. It had been too many years since that timber had echoed against the walls.

  “Turn on the light, Jane,” the voice whispered, this time more resolute.

  Jane crawled to the bed and lifted herself onto it. She searched for the lamp on the table and found the switch. Facing the rocking chair, she flicked on the light.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jane stared into the eyes of a woman she didn’t recognize. But the voice was unmistakable.

  “Hello, Jane.”

  “Is this a dream?”

  “No.”

  “Am I dead?”

  “No.” There was a soft smile, followed by a mischievous giggle.

  Jane peered closer at the women. Her skin was youthful and her eyes were bright. She looked nineteen or twenty years old. “But you’re dead…”

  “Of course.”

  Jane gazed at her. She wore a tight-fitting, sexy red satin halter dress that looked like it was painted on her lithe body. The V-neck plunged, exposing her firm mound of plump, young breasts. A fresh gardenia was pinned to the center of the neckline. Her hair fell in soft brown glossy waves, brushing her tanned shoulders. A pair of black dressy sandals with twoinch heels completed the ensemble. “I don’t remember you ever looking like this.”

  She got up from the rocking chair and walked to the end of the bed. It was then that Jane notice
d her fire engine red fingernails. “I know,” she stared into Jane’s eyes. “The flame was extinguished before we ever became acquainted.”

  Acquainted, Jane thought. What a cold word to use.

  “Bad word choice,” she said, reading Jane’s mind. “Let me rephrase that. Life had done a number on me before I gave life to you.” She looked around room with an innocent awe. “Wow. It’s real pretty in here.”

  Jane heard a distant hum that seemed to be holding the realities together. “What do I call you? Anne or Mom?”

  Anne leaned down and rested her elbows in the bed’s comforter, framing her tanned face with the palms of her hands. “I guess we could be modern and you could call me Anne. Or keep it traditional and call me mom.” She smiled a warm, vibrant grin.

  Jane was taken back. “You never smiled like that.”

  “Yeah, I know. Not much to smile about, was there?” Anne bit her lower lip. Suddenly, she stood up, a restlessness overtaking her. “Oh, this room really is dreamy with the canopy bed and the nice furniture.”

  Dreamy? Jane wondered why in the hell her mother gave a shit about the décor.

  Anne giggled, reading Jane’s mind. “I just like it, that’s all!” She sounded more like a teenager than the woman who was her mother. Anne strolled around the room, checking out the pictures on the wall.

  “Why are you here?” Jane asked cautiously.

  “I’m not just here,” she said, more interested in the artwork. “I’ve been a lot of places. I was in the doctor’s office when you got the news, then the closet, then your car.” Anne turned to Jane, a strand of hair falling seductively across her face. “I saved your ass today, didn’t I?” She laughed a knowing chuckle.

  “That was you?”

  “Who in the hell did you think it was?” Jane unintentionally sent her a message. “Oh,” Anne’s face grew slightly more serious. “You thought it was him?” She returned her tour of the room. “Nope. It was little ol’ me.”

  “You were in the doctor’s office? So you know?”

  “Know what?” Anne was more intrigued by the floral wallpaper.

  “If I’m dying?” Jane’s tenor was irritated. And the realization that a ghost was irritating her wasn’t lost on Jane.

  She looked at Jane. “Oh, hell, we’re all dying, Jane.” Anne thought about it. “Or dead!” A carefree giggle followed.

  “I thought maybe you were here to tell me I was jumping over to your side of the fence soon.”

  Anne stretched and sighed. She pursed her lips. “It depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  Anne’s blithe spirit diminished a bit. “On whether you’re prepared to see things for how they truly are… and were.” Anne turned away, a sense of duty enfolding her. “You shouldn’t carry it if it doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Carry what?” Anne stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, a wave of excruciating pain hit Jane’s pelvis. Anne winced as her daughter doubled over onto the bed. Tears filled Jane’s eyes. It felt like an ax had been flung into her groin, splitting her in two. She looked up at her mother who remained motionless. “Help me,” Jane whispered, through the tears.

  “Can you accept what you’ve never known?”

  Jane was losing consciousness. She tried to speak but the pain was overwhelming. Burying her head in the comforter, she waited to pass out. She felt herself drift away from her body. The soft cushion of the comforter against her forehead could again be felt and the horrific torment in her gut dissolved. She opened her eyes and the room was dark. Reaching out, her hand hit the side of the enamel bathtub. Beneath her was the pink bath mat. Disoriented, she stumbled to her feet and stood in the bathroom doorway. Outside, there was the faintest glimmer of light. She looked at the clock—6:00 am. Jane turned on the bedside lamp and stared at the rocking chair.

  Nobody. Nothing.

  She sat on the bed in stunned silence, the memory of her mother’s visit still fresh in her mind’s eye. It was insanity, Jane thought, to believe that she had just seen a glimpse of the woman before the storm of life swallowed her. But it was as real as the table or chair in front of her. There was a window into a world Jane never knew her mother dwelt in. Before the lifeless gaze Jane only saw as a child, her mother bubbled with energy and carefree exuberance. Her face wasn’t yet mapped with lines of misery and regret; her eyes hadn’t been dampened by profound sadness. But who broke her heart? It wasn’t just Jane’s father and his violent, booze-fueled rages. The honeymoon photos Jane found in the box in her closet proved that. What happened between age nineteen or twenty and twenty-two when Anne LeRoy became Anne Perry? Was it an erstwhile lover who left her heartbroken and bereft? Jane had a hard time picturing the woman she knew cavorting with men. God, it was akin to watching a nun in a burlesque show. But if it was a man who gutted her emotionally, what kind of hold could he have that would essentially destroy her so deeply that she attracted Jane’s father and lived a life of quiet desperation that ended in agony at age thirty-five? What kind of man had that kind of power?

  Jane lay back on the bed in a fetal position, hoping sleep would overtake her. But she was still awake when she heard Weyler’s footsteps in the hallway and the knock on her door.

  “Jane?” Weyler said softly. “You up?”

  “Yeah, Boss,” Jane said, still slightly in a dissociative state.

  “Sara’s got breakfast downstairs for us. Then they’re heading to church. We need to talk.”

  Jane felt her heart race. “I’ll be down.”

  Jane heard Weyler’s footsteps walk downstairs. She willed her body back together and sat up. Out of nowhere, a fountainhead of resolve suddenly took over. From where it originated, she didn’t know. But it was dynamic and inexorable.

  Roused by this newfound determination, she turned to the clothesline of clues. One by one, she was determined to reveal every single lie that tainted this case. She would sink her teeth into the marrow of the guilty parties and not let go until the answers were laid bare. She would be ruthless because, more than ever, she truly wanted to see everything for what it really was.

  Jane’s enthusiasm for her plan was somewhat dimmed when she walked into the bathroom and found her only shirts still soaking in a tub of cold water. She quickly rinsed the shirts and wrung them tightly before hanging them in the sunniest window of her room. It wouldn’t halt her progress, she vowed; she’d wear her Ron Paul nightshirt covered by her leather jacket. Yeah, she’d have to tuck in the generous material, but she’d make it work. Jane showered quickly using the tub’s handheld shower adaptation and tossed on her dirty jeans, boots and nightshirt.

  Downstairs, the house was quiet, save for Sergeant Weyler seated in the kitchen, quietly turning the pages of the Sunday Denver Post and enjoying a cinnamon roll. As usual, the man was dressed in a suit, soft blue shirt and red power tie. His jacket was carefully draped over another chair and a thick cloth napkin covered his shirt and tie.

  “Is that what you’re wearing today?” Weyler asked, tipping the newspaper to take a gander at Jane’s odd appearance.

  Jane removed a covered dish from the oven. “Yeah. I got it figured out.” She uncovered the lid and found a hearty egg, mushroom and cheese medley dotted with fresh cilantro. “Damn. You gotta love B&B food, right, Boss?”

  Weyler was still askance regarding Jane’s appearance. “What happened to you last night?”

  Jane served herself three generous spoonfuls of the egg dish, thankful to have a physical action to deflect her words. “I tried to call you about five o’ clock, but I didn’t have service. I had car trouble.”

  “Car trouble?”

  “I think it’s the muffler,” she said, her actions focused on placing the covered dish back into the oven so the lie wouldn’t be detected by Weyler. “I had to wait on the side of the road for two hours before I got someone to stop and help me.” Jane continued her intricate fabrication, making sure not to concoct too detailed a story so that it would be
difficult to remember. “The tow truck didn’t roll in until like…eight…” Jane sat down and took a hearty bite. “Where’s the coffee?”

  Weyler pointed to the sideboard. Jane popped up and poured herself a cup of strong coffee. “Who helped you?”

  Jane returned to the table. She could see that Weyler was suspicious. It was time to inject a modicum of truth. “Hank Ross. He owns the sports bar in town. Said he knows the guy who owns the automotive joint and that he’s going to pull some favors for me so I can get the car back today.” She tried to sound as offhand as possible as she drove another spoonful of food into her mouth. “Shit, food really does taste better when you quit smoking!”

  “Your car’s getting fixed on a Sunday?” Weyler was now looking more like the doubtful father, questioning his daughter the morning after the night before. “That’s highly unusual.”

  “Yeah, well, you know…” Jane drifted off, taking a good sip of the dark brew.

  Weyler set down the paper, sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Goddamnit, Jane! What in the hell is going on?”

  “My car’s in the shop. Go check for yourself…”

  “Stop it!” Weyler leaned forward. “Don’t insult me anymore!” Jane’s gut clenched. “I’ve known you too damn long. I know the way your mind works. I know that the more I advise you not to do something, the more likely you are to do it.” Jane hung her head, studying the food on her plate. “You’ve reached out to Jordan, one-on-one, face-to-face.” Jane looked up at him, her eyes anxious. “I haven’t said a word to Bo. Don’t worry.”